


The Golden Leaves of Mirkwood

by Wonderdyke



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Anal Sex, BDSM, Bondage, Caning, Cockslut!Legolas, Daddy Kink, Double Anal Penetration, Father/Son Incest, Flogging, Group Sex, Hair Braiding, Hair Kink, Hair Washing, Incest, Intercrural Sex, Lots of Sex, M/M, Magic, Magic used in sex, Marriage between father and son, Mirkwood sex politics are murky, Parent/Child Incest, Pining, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Porn with a tiny bit of plot... if you squint, Resolved Sexual Tension, Romance, Romanticised Incest, Rough Kissing, Rough Oral Sex, Rough Sex, Throne Sex, Whipping, You can get away with anything when you're the king, bottom!Legolas, dom!thranduil, no where is safe to sit, resolved over every surface in mirkwood, so much sex, so resolved, top!thranduil
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-03
Updated: 2018-05-24
Packaged: 2019-05-01 15:42:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 15,512
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14523855
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wonderdyke/pseuds/Wonderdyke
Summary: To say Thranduil pined would be a conceit, a pretension to humility that he bore not, at least in the musings of his own mind.  That his obsession disturbed him did little to quell his interest, if anything, it could be said that the wrongness of it only made the claws of longing dig deeper into his heart.It was not unheard of among the annals of his people for two of the same line to find companionship in each other’s arms.  For all the long years of the elves they were far-flung and the close bonds of kinship changed easily into the heat of romance, of love.  So long as no children were bourne of such a union it was regarded as a dark fact of their lives. Yet the scandal of such a thing would be remembered above all else.  He could rule fairly, with a good hand, and the only thing ever spoken when his time passed would be he loved his son too well.Still, Thranduil knew he would bear it for a taste of silken flesh, for the right to touch and claim and love.But, how could he taint the rule of his Legolas with his own aberrance?





	1. Like Father, Like Son

**Author's Note:**

  * For [](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts).



To say Thranduil pined would be a conceit, a pretension to humility that he bore not, at least in the musings of his own mind.  That his obsession disturbed him did little to quell his interest, if anything, it could be said that the _wrongness_ of it only made the claws of longing dig deeper into his heart.

It was not unheard of among the annals of his people for two of the same line to find companionship in each other’s arms.  For all the long years of the elves they were far-flung and the close bonds of kinship changed easily into the heat of romance, of love.  So long as no children were bourne of such a union it was regarded as a dark fact of their lives. Yet the scandal of such a thing would be remembered above all else.  He could rule fairly, with a good hand, and the only thing ever spoken when his time passed would be he loved his son too well.

Still, Thranduil knew he would bear it for a taste of silken flesh, for the right to touch and claim and love.

But, how could he taint the rule of his Legolas with his own aberrance?

And yet such dispersions did nothing to quell the forge of his affections, the tremulous ache in his body to hold beyond what was acceptable for a father, to kiss beyond what was appropriate for kin.

He longed.

Longed to touch another _Sinda_ , to cleave magic to flesh in ecstatic union, to know the soft lips of his own blood.  Yet, there were none in his Kingdom save Legolas himself since the fading of his mother in an age nearly before recounting.  The _Silvans_ he ruled were a good and hearty people if rough-hewn in the shadow of the mountains, dark of hair and ruddy of flesh.

His hands itched for paleness, for the golden moonlight beneath autumn leaves, for the sweet and gentle skin of his own ilk.  His mouth craved the coral petals of one of the _Sinda_ and the roughness of a man’s touch… a warrior’s touch.

He lingered...

Ever on the edges of vision, magic wrapped like a cloak about him so that none may remark upon his presence, he waited near the great roots and trunks where warriors stripped shirtless and tested each other in combat.  He watched as Legolas was cast to the leaf-strewn ground in countless losses over innumerate years even as tight cords of muscle carved their way into his moonlit body until finally, he began to best the others, challenging older and stronger warriors until none could defeat him.

It was upon that day, when Legolas stood above all other combatants that the boy turned man looked to his father, grey eyes of the _Sinda_ piercing the veil of Thranduil’s illusion like evaporating mist, and smiled a wicked smile.

So shocked was Thranduil that his son, who had never any great skill with his illusion magics, could part his spell so easily that he thought little of the heat in his only son’s gaze.

He released the whispering of the spell, the warriors assembled instantly breaking from their raucous celebrations of Legolas’ prowess to fall to bended knee before their King.

“Many splendours of the ancestors upon your brow, Legolas son of Thranduil,” he said to the golden-haired man bent shallowly at the neck, the submission of two near equal in station.  Thranduil longed to show his son how very disparate they were, to put the young man on his knees and make him _beg._  

He shuddered at the thought, the pounding of his heart nearly drowning out his son’s reply.

“You honour me with your presence, _ada_ ,” Legolas breathed with deep affection.

Legolas named him ‘father’ before his people rather than ‘king’, a gift to his aching heart.  The softness of the word should not have heated his blood until he thought it would boil from his flesh.

Thranduil dared to step closer, to challenge the leash of his own control as he cupped his son’s chin between forefinger and thumb and tilted that face up to meet his gaze.  “The honour, _iônen_ , is mine,” he said softly, a secret conference in the midst of such a crowd.  “You have made your father proud this day.”

“I did only what my love for you bade me.”

His son spoke the word _mellon_ for love, the love of a son - appropriate and chaste - but Thranduil longed to hear _mîl_ fall from his lips, the romantic love of those entwined.

Thranduil steadied the trembling in his hands by cupping Legolas’ neck, dampened with the clean sweat of exertion, and drawing them together until their foreheads touched in companionship.

“The strength of my arms,” Legolas continued, the warmth of his breath searing across Thranduil’s cheeks like dragon’s fire, “is fueled by my devotion to thee, _ada_ … _adaen… aranen.”_

‘My father’, ‘My king’, how many fantasies had burned themselves into his mind where his son said such sweet things as he writhed amongst the spider silk of his bedclothes?  How many nights had he longed for his son to help fill the great expanse of a monarch’s lonely bed?

Thranduil stepped back as if burned, patting his son gently on the cheek so he would know he had not displeased his father-king.

“There shall be a feast in three day’s time,” Thranduil declared for all assembled, “to honour the glorious warrior my son has become.  All shall be welcome.”

There was a murmured chorus of ‘my king’s even as he swept away from the training grounds to return to the palace.

As soon as he was safely ensconced in his chambers he was parting his robes, opening them only enough to wrap his long pale fingers around the shaft of his cock.  He was not ashamed that he imagined his bare-chested sweat-soaked boy on his knees, shoulders heaving with desire rather than exertion as he waited for the benediction of his father’s seed.  It was a fantasy and Thranduil had enough guilt without undertaking his own punishment in regards to the desires of his flesh.

No, he would let himself have that moment, gasping as he spilt into his own palm, without ill thought.

It was, after all, but an imagining and would always be thus.

~***~

Legolas watched his father depart even as his body ached for him, eyes lingering on the long line of his _ada_ ’s body.  He had hoped, perhaps foolishly, that if he rose above all others in his skills as a warrior his father would see him as a man and take him to his bed as an equal.  Legolas knew he had little to offer the King who was so far above him in beauty and power; Legolas might have had more luck courting the stars that fell from the sky.

He might be superior in the field of combat but Legolas was untested in the games of the bedchamber, virginal and untouched.  Oh, he’d had offers, what prince didn’t? He could have been ill-formed and beastly and there would still be men and women who threw themselves upon his cares.  

Legolas liked to think he was not ill-formed.

But it was not some casual dalliance he wished to give the privilege of his first coupling to.  Perhaps he was womanly in it, in the desire to offer up his body as a gift and be taken apart with gentle hands and lips.  When he closed his grey eyes he ever envisioned a matching pair blown dark with lust above him.

Untried as he was he had little but the vague notions of fingers on skin, of lips on lips to fuel his aching nights.  Legolas wanted _more_ , craved _more_ and was becoming impatient with the need of it.

Yet he could not seduce his _ada_ , his king, even if he had such skills.  Legolas was unworthy in his very soul of such a man’s affections.

He cared not for what people would _say_.  They were, after all, the constant fuel to the wagging tongues of the people.  Such was the way of princes and kings. He would not stay his hand for fear of gossip, he was no coward.

No, what kept him from his father’s bed was the thought of the King’s disapproval, of losing his _ada’s_ love.  It was all he ever wanted, all he ever longed for.  Even if the affection he received from Thranduil was mere scraps compared to the imaginings of his mind, he could not survive without that barest amount.

Becoming first amongst his people’s warriors may not have earned him his father’s attention but the same could not be said about others.  In the days between his success on the training grounds and the feast he was inundated with offers, some sweet and easily rebuked while others were far too forward with his person.  He had taken to hiding in his chambers, denying him even the small pleasure of seeing his _ada_.

It was but a day and a night and another day before the feast was to commence when a knock at his chamber door had him startling from the mire of his thoughts.  

He wondered why his servant was not announcing the visitor even as he pulled open the portal, his father as resplendent as sunlight on chilled skin standing on the other side.  He smiled at his sire, all genuine warmth and affection. Thranduil blinked a startled gesture before returning it.

 _“Adaen,”_ he grinned, “to what do I owe such a pleasure?”

“I have not seen you about, _iônen._  I am told you have left your chambers little these past two days.  I thought, perhaps, you might enjoy some company for your midday meal.”  

The King snapped his fingers in a careful gesture yet filled with such graceful command that it made Legolas’ cock swell.  He was grateful for the tight clench of his leathers lest he be betrayed by his own body’s cravings.

He stepped back, King and servants both sweeping into the room though he only had eyes for his sire.  He ignored them as they cleared room at the small table that had been little used and piled high with weapons.  They dragged it before the fireplace, flames dancing greedily without fuel as the runes flared with magic.

A cloth was draped across the scarred surface before dishes laid out.

“Father,” he said, neck craning back as he looked into the man’s grey eyes.  The King stood close, Legolas but a seedling in the shadow of a greater tree yet Thranduil did not claim all the light to choke him from existence.  His father _was_ the nourishing sun and Legolas, content to bask in his beauty, in his warmth.

“Come,” the King bade when they were alone again once more.  

When Legolas did not immediately move, a warm hand pressed to the small of his back and guided him to the repast.  He shivered when his father drew away to settle into the chair across from him.

“I wonder,” the King mused as he drew the wooden lids off dishes to reveal a hearty meal of their favourite foods.  Legolas’ heart lightened that a King would take care in remembering such details for no one else knew his preferences as his father did. “ - why my son would remain in the shelter of his room when he is often wanting the freedom of the open air?  What troubles you, Legolas?”

Legolas took a bite, savouring the hearty flavour of the pheasant before setting his utensils down and regarding his father with a soft look.  Truly, he did not wish to discuss his would-be paramours but the King had asked and Legolas was ever loathe to deny his father anything.

He sighed.  “There are many,” he said carefully, not wishing to bring down his father’s ire upon any one person, “who would celebrate my achievements with me.”

“And this troubles you…?”

“They would do it in private.  Within these very walls.”

Thranduil arched a dark eyebrow but there was no amusement in his gaze.  Perhaps Legolas was seeing that which he ached for but he thought he saw a knife edge of longing before it was concealed.

“You do not wish,” the King asked, “to take someone to your bed?”

“I do, _a_ _dan_ ,” he murmured, no longer able to meet his father’s gaze lest the man see the hunger in his eyes.  “Sadly, the one I crave does not return my affections.”

Thranduil’s long fingers plucked his hand from the table, thumb skittering a caress across his knuckles.  There was a softness to the moment, a gentleness woven amongst their breaths and the hiss of the flames as Thranduil murmured, “Then they are the lesser for it for you are the glory of our people.  Take another and cleanse your mind of them.”

“I wish,” Legolas managed around a throat thickened with longing, “my first time to be something worthy of remembering with someone worthy of it.”

Thranduil dropped his hand, Legolas’ reflexes catching his own arm before it could crash to the table.  “I did not realise,” the King stammered, “that you have yet to take a lover.”

Legolas caught his father’s gaze, the spell of his own desire making him bold.  “There are few I value with such a gift.”

Thranduil nodded, staring into the flames or his meal for long moments as he supped before finally asking, “And when you think of such a one are they male or female in their countenance?”

“Male, sire.  I do not believe I care for the affections of women though, of course, I will do my duty by the realm and produce an heir.”

Legolas meant it, even if the idea of laying with a woman in such a way made him feel ill.  They had their ways, those who were disinclined to the opposite gender but still required heir for a dynasty.  Someday, when a King ruled beside him they would choose a pair of women of similar tastes and each fill them with a child.  The child of royal blood would be raised by him and his King, the other child made nobility and their mothers with it as a gift for their service to the crown.

The children would, of course, be raised together in the palace though only one could ever rise to the throne.  Legolas ached for the halls to be filled with the running of small feet, to embrace sons and daughters but when he imagined his King it was ever his own father’s face he saw raising children by his side.

Thranduil fell silent again and Legolas filled the stretched moments with eating his own meal; though the throbbing of desire pulsing between his legs did much to distract him from the simple pleasure of the fare.

“You will make a good father, Legolas,” the King said softly as he covered his empty plate.  

Suddenly his heart was racing with anxiety, fear that the meal would be over and his sire would leave again.  He closed his eyes, breathing softly to master the swirl of his own feelings before saying with all the honesty within him, “You are a good father, _adaen_ , and a good King.”

“If I am only half as good as my son, my legacy shall be complete.”

Legolas shook his head wistfully, his braids smacking him softly on the chin.  “I hope I never become King for that means I will have lost you, _adaen_ , and I would be the lesser for it.”

“It is the duty,” Thranduil said softly, gazing into some far away place through the medium of the flames, “of sons to bury their fathers.”

Legolas wondered if he was remembering his own father who he’d seen fall in battle which led him to wonder if Thranduil had ever ached for Oropher the way Legolas did for him.  “I hope to never fulfil such a duty.”

Thranduil’s eyes met his then, dancing with sadness and a dark sort of humour.  “I cannot live forever, _iônen_.”

Legolas flinched as he never had on the field of battle, the words striking truer than any blade.  “I would give my life a thousand times, my King,” he said fiercely, “if only you will never fall.”

“I would never allow you to trade your life for mine, Legolas,” the King bit out, suddenly vicious in his countenance.

He trembled at the sound of his given name on his father’s lips, wished to kiss the syllables out of his mouth.

“I could never bury my son,” Thranduil said softer than his earlier words.  “Surely the act would kill me and leave our people without a ruler.”

Legolas laid his hand gently over his father’s, the King turned his over to cup his son’s in return and in so doing easing an ache in Legolas’ chest.  He longed to rise, to settled himself in his father’s lap and chase his cares away with passionate kisses.

The King sighed.  “Forgive me, _iônen,_ for bringing such seriousness to our meal.”

“I believe, _aranen,_ that the fault lies with me.”

Something in his words drew a reluctant smile to the King’s face, his heart gladdened to see the expression.

“You are a good son, _calenlasen._ I have ever been proud of you.”

Legolas felt the rhythm of his heart like the pounding of a dwarf’s hammer within his chest.  He sipped from his wine to cover the aching cry building behind his ribs. “I am gladdened to hear it, _mallenlasen._ ”

He called his father golden leaf, a returning of the affectionate nickname of ‘green leaf’ that his father had bestowed upon him in his youth, but there were many words to say such a thing… he deliberately chose the one that sounded so like ‘beloved’, willing his father to hear the truth of it.

Thranduil leaned back in his chair, obviously relaxed and in no hurry to leave.  Legolas eased in response, grateful to the King for lingering when much demanded his attention.

“It has been too long since we sat in private council, my son. I have missed this.”

“Is there something that weighs upon your mind?”

Thranduil nodded sadly.  “There is ever much to weigh upon the mind of a king, you will know this someday.”  The King sighed heavily. “I confess the heft seems burdensome without someone to carry it by my side.”

“You miss her,” Legolas breathed, longing tightening his chest as shafts of mid-afternoon light stretched across the floor, glittering rays pouring through the open portals of the vine crafted window.

“Your mother?”

Legolas nodded.

Thranduil smiled a soft, private smile leaving Legolas to wonder at the jealousy that lanced his heart for the dead woman that bore him into the world.  “Your mother and I were close but as brother and sister, not husband and wife. She bore you for me, a gift I am daily grateful for. But I am as you are, I have ever preferred the companionship of men.”

Legolas did not wish to speak of his mother anymore, cared to chase the thread of ‘companionship of men’ and yet he found himself asking, “How did she die?”

The King sighed.  “You were born weak after a long and demanding birth, your life beyond the skill of the healers to bring back.  She gave you what energy remained inside her that she might fade away, returning to the land of our forefathers.  It saved your life.”

“Do you think - “

Thranduil held up a hand, silencing his son before he called, “Enter!”

The servants from before swept into the room, bobbing courtesies before being allowed to clear the dishes.  Again, Legolas feared his father might find some reason to go so he asked, “Would you take the air with me?”

Thranduil’s smile was warm and inviting as he rose, offering his arm to his son.  Legolas laid his atop, pressing their forearms together from wrist to elbow. He longed to have that long arm wrapped around his waist with the intimate closeness of lovers but as they were his wrist betimes brushed the bare skin on the top of his father’s hand and even that contact had heat pooling in his belly.

“You do an old man much courtesy, _iônen_ , to give up your day in my company.”

“ _Adaen_ ,” he said, pausing on the entry to the outer walkway to look up into his father’s stormy grey eyes, “I would pass every day thus but I fear the kingdom would suffer for it.”

The King made a derisive snort, the expression so unguarded it brought laughter to Legolas’ face.  “The kingdom needs little interference from its king. My rule has been long and stable, the people know what I expect of them and I, in turn, know what they expect of me.  I find myself often seeking a way to pass my days.”

Legolas reached out, surprised to find his fingers did not tremble as he brushed a strand of blond hair from his _ada’s_ face.  It was intimate, skirting the edge of acceptable between a grown son and a father to touch his glorious hair.  The King had grown his to his knees which befit his station as ruler and his prowess with magic. As crown prince, Legolas could grow his nearly as long but chose a shorter style as he had not the ability to weave the ancient energies as others did.

Had he been bolder, bold enough to bury his fingers against his _ada’s_ scalp it would have been a scandal indeed, akin to sinking to his knees to suck his father’s cock in public.  The idea of both appealed to him.

And were he to pull Thranduil’s head down to his own and press ear to ear, that sensitive vulnerable flesh whispering together?  Legolas would have expired from happiness yet the people would likely have preferred they strip down naked and Thranduil have him against the railing, such was the intimacy of such an act.

Even Legolas, untouched as he was, had walked in on soldiers’ frantic rough couplings and lovers’ trysts in the stables.  Anyone could mate like animals in heat, it was a craving of the body, but to touch ears was an intimacy of the soul. It was said that in that moment you could feel each other’s magic, hear the secret song that hummed within.  If the music was the same then perhaps you were meant for each other above all.

He wondered if his song matched his father’s, longed for it to be so.

“I would always enjoy your companionship, _adaen_ ,” Legolas said sincerely as he dropped his hand away.  Perhaps it was the imaginings of his mind but Thranduil seemed loathe to let it go.

Perhaps he was taking advantage to quell the ache beneath his own skin.  His father, after all, had not taken a lover to bed in easy recounting.

Thranduil tugged him close, placing a warm soft kiss on Legolas’ forehead.  The young warrior nearly melted with the pleasure of it. “You are a gift to your father, Legolas,” the King whispered against his skin, the warmth of his body like the gentle embrace of the sun.

With a shudder from Thranduil’s body, the moment was broken and the King stepped back, offering his arm once more.  They walked for a long time among the bridges of Mirkwood, woven with the skilful coaxing of trees and vines to grow rooms where the ancient wood would otherwise not and form paths for those who trod with feet not claw.

It was a difficult form of magic and the skill of the elves of Mirkwood in creating cities and homes from branch and leaf surpassed even the inhabitants of Rivendell and Lothlorien.

The canopy far, far above them protected the denizens from the weather as, even as they walked, the echoes of thunder and the hushed whisper of water on leaves made the quiet of the city pregnant with gentle sounds.  There were rivulets, canals grown into the massive trees so that water might run into the cities aqueducts and nourish fields of plants grown under artificial lights. But, every once in a while, the walkways would part into a ring of seating and the canopy overhead would be open by design to allow rain or sun to pour down on the elves of Mirkwood.  When Legolas was a child he would strip down and splash in the shallow puddle. He’d had no playmates, no child having been born within a hundred years of himself, but Thranduil had always doted and looked on fondly.

Perhaps the King noticed how his eyes lingered on the empty balcony for he chuckled and stopped for both of them.  “Do you wish to dance beneath the rain, _iônen_?”

Legolas bit his lip but nodded fiercely.  Truly, he was too old for such innocence but his father seemed disinclined to tell him so.

“Take off your tunic so it does not become heavy with damp.”

Legolas did so, adding the thin shift of his cotton shirt to his father’s arms before ducking under the falling water.

It was a shock to his body how _cold_ it was with autumn approaching and winter soon behind yet, he was giddy with it, whooping and twirling as his white hair plaster to the bare skin of his back, braids flinging droplets of water as he spun until he was dizzy.  He kicked at the puddle, sending water up and over the railings to land somewhere below before turning with a mischievous glint in his eye, intending to splash his _ada_.

The look on the King’s face pulled him up short.

Legolas could not mistake that look for he’d known it since he became a man and pleasing to look at yet there was a rawness to Thranduil’s arousal, to his longing.  There was an intimacy there that left Legolas feeling flayed open and utterly safe.

Unthinking, he crossed the three steps to his father, murmuring, “ _Adaen_ ,” before he surged up and pressed his lips to the King’s.

There was a moment when Legolas thought he might his back before the King was pulling away in shock and fear.  “We cannot, Legolas,” Thranduil admonished. “We cannot.”

His father dumped his clothes into his arms and, before he could form a reply, disappeared into the endless paths of Mirkwood.

Legolas, the fool he, sunk to the ground and wept.


	2. A Madness in the Blood

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would like to thank starbucksxlove for her help with the Sindarin resources and answering vague questions about elven lore! Thîr vain chîn darn thulen.
> 
> Thranduil and Legolas speak in Sindarin with one another but with all others they speak in Quenya, in case you were wondering...

Thranduil did not sleep that night, long hours passing as he thought on the kiss his son had bestowed upon his lips, chaste and unyielding in the way of youth.

He should have known his clever child would see the desire that lay within him, and he, obedient son would fulfil request unasked if only to gladden his father.  Thranduil sought a way to tell his son that such a service was not required to beloved sire or beloved King.

Oh, how he loved his son.  Too well and too fiercely and Legolas, gifted with the best sight of all the hunters, saw that love and that loneliness and sought to turn the tides of it within him with a penance of his own flesh.

Thranduil wished he could accept such a gift, would have if he believed his son returned even a modicum of his perversion for he could never deny his son anything.

And yet… He knew why Legolas, _cidinn las_ , pressed rain-damp lips to the heated furnace of his flesh and it was not for want but _devotion_.

Thranduil never thought he’d regret having an obedient son.

He stroked himself over the knife edge of pleasure for a sixth time thinking only of such devotion, bringing life if only within his mind of his son writhing bare and damp beneath his ministrations, hair clinging to skin as it had beneath the rain.  The thoughts stoked the forge of his pleasure until he spilt with an anguished cry the sensation both too much and not enough even as his cock tried to swell to fullness again; such was the prowess of the elf-kind.

If he was less of a man, less of a father he could twist that devotion within his child and turn it into something monstrous if only for the pleasure of having himself buried within the silken heat of his son, flesh of his flesh.  Thranduil had ever been skilled in manipulation and he saw the cracks within Legolas, the weak points to which he could apply pressure and have all of him, body and soul.

But he would break something precious in his son and he could no more do that then carve out his own heart.

He would have to take a lover, show Legolas that that was not needed from him so they could be son and father without Thranduil’s sickness between them.

As Thranduil found his release a seventh time, he wept.

~***~

The feast was a misery to Legolas who, having avoided his _ada_ since the ill-thought kiss, was forced to sit to his left and stare at the empty seat where Queen or Consort might be at the King’s side ever mocking his position as Price and _nothing more_.

Surely Thranduil had made that quite clear, that whatever Legolas had thought he saw was merely the eager longings of his mind.  He was a fool to think his father could love him beyond what he already gave so selflessly. Legolas feared he’d broken their bond beyond repair and yet could not find it in him to meet his father’s gaze, to repair what he had undone.

When the night ended, Legolas’ gaze lingered as Thranduil took a young man with him as he retired to his chamber.  The King had never taken a lover in the years Legolas could recount and in doing so after all that had transpired was but another dagger in his heart.

It was a foolish gesture, another impetuous demand of his soul that had him racing behind.  At least the Hall was empty when he cried, “Please, _ada.”_

The King turned to the young man by his side and murmured, “Wait in my chamber, child.”  When Thranduil faced him there was sadness in his eyes.

Legolas crossed the five steps into his father’s embrace and wrapped arms around the narrow waist before him.  His father had ever been taller than he, towering mighty before all including his son. “Please, _adaen…_ I can’t...”

“ _Iônen,”_ he breathed, air disturbing the fall of his pale hair.  Long arms held him close, fingertips ghosting over the edges of his hairline.  “Let us put this madness aside, little leaf. Let us be as we were.”

Legolas whimpered, tucking his face into his father’s soft robes.  “Is that what you desire, my King?”

Thranduil stepped back far enough that he could bend and look Legolas on the same level.  “I value your love more than I can express, _iônen.”_

He swallowed the lump of shameful yearning in his throat.  “Then I will put it aside, _ada,_ as you wish.”

Thranduil smiled, radiant as the moonlight streaming through the woods even as motes of summoned magic danced in their shafts.  “I am gladdened to hear it. You need not worry for me, _calenlasen_.”

He tried to push down the jealousy, the young man did not deserve his ire for being more worthy, more lovely.  He failed utterly. “I will try not to, my King.”

Thranduil frowned at the way Legolas said the honorific, formally and stiffly.

Looking down the passage where the boy had disappeared he murmured, “You should see to your guest.”

“Legolas - “

But he was already turning, already fleeing the painful thoughts of someone in his _a_ _da’s_ bed, in his King’s heart.

He collected his bow and enough rations for a night, the rest he would hunt, before his feet carried him to Tauriel’s chambers.  He had thought to leave a note, the _elleth_ often left the city for days at a time but he was surprised that light danced around the seams of the door.  

When he knocked she bade, “Enter.”  His foster sister took one look at him and rose, dragging him into a crushing embrace.  “What has happened, _hanno_?”

Legolas cleared his throat, turning his gaze from hers so that he might garner some semblance of control over the tumult of emotions in his chest.  “I’m fine. I’ve decided to go orc hunting. I thought you might inform my father for me.”

“Since when,” she asked, clever green eyes regarding him seriously, “do you need a messenger for your father?”

“He is otherwise indisposed this evening, _heldë.”_

Tauriel nodded.  “I do not know why you must leave so quickly.”

“It is important.  Please, you will tell him?  I do not wish him to worry.”

“I will.”

“Thank you, sister.”

~***~

Thranduil entered his chambers, the young eager man already naked atop his bed.

“What are you called?” he asked, not moving to disrobe as he settled himself in a deep chair before the fire a flicker of magic making it dance to life.  He sat with his right side facing the hearth, even the smallest of heat against his hidden scars was unbearable and thus, did not see the young man until he was right before him though he had sensed his approach.

“Limmon, sire.”

“And are you?” he asked as the boy poured a goblet of wine.  “Many thanks.”

“Am I what, sire?”

It was a good thing he had not taken a name meaning clever.  “Are you swift?”

The young _ellon_ gave a wickedly suggestive smile palming the proud jut of his cock.  “Not in the bedchamber, my King.”

Thranduil was tempted to roll his eyes at the young man’s obviousness, all brashness and not wisdom, but he did not.  He had not chosen Limmon for his mind but rather his vague resemblance to Legolas in body if not in face or personality.  If he was going to lie with another he could at least close his eyes and pretend the body beneath him was truly the one he craved.

“There are pleasure oils on the shelf,” Thranduil said with a vague sweep of his hand to the cubbies of woven vines and wood against the wall.  “You will prepare yourself to be taken.”

Limmon fluttered his eyelashes as he murmured, “As my King commands.”

Thranduil let himself into the young man’s mind as he laid himself out upon the bed and began to work himself open in a way that was meant to be watched.  Thranduil did not watch.  It was as he expected, Limmon was attracted to him but mostly had joined him to receive favours from his King. That made things simpler for he did not need to concern himself with the boy’s feelings.

Thranduil was grateful for that, at least.  He was full with enough of his own emotions without taking on another's.

When last Thranduil took a lover, long long ago, he had been giving and attentive but he could not see the night’s events as little more than a duty.  Still, he would perform them lest Legolas hear that he had not taken the young man and feel the need to take Limmon’s place. He would always put his desires below his son’s.

Thranduil pressed his fingertips to his scars, hidden from all but himself.  Even Legolas had not seen them, yet another reason to stay away from his heart’s desire.  He was monstrous beneath the glamour and Thranduil knew that if he claimed his son for his own then he could have, would have no secrets from Legolas.

Even imagining Legolas seeing the burn that claimed his eye and being revolted brought a curdling sickness to his belly.

“I am prepared, sire,” Limmon called from the luxury of his spider silk sheets.

Thranduil disrobed easily enough, the boy’s eyes lingering with hunger against his skin.  He imagined those green eyes were blue-grey like a storm and much like his own as they dragged over the perfection of his flesh, rendered so by magic.

“Turn over,” he demanded, satisfied when the boy rolled to elbows and knees, hiding the face that was not his son’s.

He entered the young man swiftly, groaning at the pleasure of being buried in something other than his own hand.

“Stroke yourself, take your pleasure, _ellon_.”

“Yes, sire,” he grunted as Thranduil fucked him, unconcerned with his lover’s release as he took the young man roughly.  “Thank you, sire.”

Thranduil pushed down the feeling of _wrongness_ , the desperate desire to be done with the act so he might sleep.  He felt tired beyond his years, wanted only to linger in slumber.

Truthfully, he enjoyed himself very little but his body had been denied another’s comfort for a long time and the drag of Limmon’s silken walls as he gasped out his undoing was enough to bring Thranduil over the edge with him, spilling into his lover’s body.  He considered letting the boy stay, taking comfort in holding another and pretending it was his Legolas but everywhere his skin met Limmon’s there were frissons of pain like a distant echo of the flames that had claimed his beauty.

“You may go,” he ordered.

Limmon was obedient enough or perhaps accustomed enough to laying with those above his station that he did not question the terse dismissal, dressing and pausing only to murmur, “If you have need of me again, sire, I would be pleased by that.”  He bowed when Thranduil did not answer and left. The King would gift the young man with something to recompense his awful behaviour but at that moment he was grateful to be alone. Even the buzz of his release felt terribly unnatural.

Thranduil thought to bathe but sleep claimed him too quickly for even that.

He dreamed of his son’s death.

Endless visions of Legolas turning pale as the corpses in the Dead Marshes, eyes lifeless and unseeing.  When he awoke, he immediately rolled over and vomited before he realised he was fair surrounded by healers.

“What is the meaning of this?” he gasped as Angoleth, the Royal Healer, held a cup of honey wine to his lips.  He drank deeply as she ordered the room cleared, pressing impossibly warm hands to his face. He shied away, her touch making his scars ache.

“My lord,” she gasped in shock, “you have lost your glamour.”

When he did not believe her she held a looking glass up for him.  “When?” he murmured, touching the twisted flesh.

“Just now.  You - sire,” she murmured, bowing deeply.  It was so unlike the brash woman who had tended his body since Oropher’s reign that he looked at her in surprise.  “I do not know what’s happened, my King but it is undeniable. You are fading.”

Fading.

Even the death of his wife and dearest friend had not stolen his desire to live.  It had to be Legolas or… or losing Legolas. Pushing his son away.

“You’ve been asleep for a fortnight, my King.  I was concerned so I sent the young elf Tauriel to find the Prince.”

“Where is he?  Where did he go?”

“Hunting, sire.  He left on the eve of his feast day.”

There was a great cacophony in the hall before someone dared to bang on his chamber door.  “Angoleth!” Tauriel cried from the other side, “My King, you must come!”

The healer pulled open the door enough to see Tauriel’s frantic face in the gap.  The girl did not even look upon him to remark his scars. Thranduil turned away and pulled on his robes, wrapping a cloak over the top so the hood might hide his face.  Fear churned in his stomach.

“It is Legolas…” she hissed desperately.  “I found him unconscious but not injured from what I can see.  He is pale, Angoleth, and his breath is weaker in each moment.”

Thranduil’s hands stilled on his garments as he straightened and ordered, “Bring him to me.”

The women left to do as he bade and he kept his face turned from the door, unable to recover the glamour even as his mind raced.  He replayed those moments with his son from the kiss to the brief conversation in the hall seeing it with a new desperate hope. If his son was fading as he was fading… could it be that his son, too, carried his perversion?  Craved his touch?

He choked down a needful sob that threatened to break free even as the door swung open and Legolas was carried to his bed.  Thranduil had a brief moment of regret that his precious son was laid atop the bedclothes that had known another’s skin before he was ordering everyone out.

Tauriel looked like she might object until she looked at his face and saw his disfigurement, shock silencing her.  Angoleth met his eyes, she who knew him better than any, and there was understanding there; no doubt the clever woman had surmised what sort of affection would cause both father and son to sicken.

It mattered not.  If Legolas would have him there would be none who did not know, for such things could not be kept from the tongues of the gossips.

He undressed as quickly as he had dressed, baring his skin until only his trousers remained, loose against his flesh that ached to touch.  He managed to bar the door, walking on trembling legs, before he joined Legolas atop his bed and dragged his knuckles across the Prince’s deathly pale cheek.

 _“Cidinn las,”_ he called gently, sighing at the rightness of touching his boy… his _laegolas_.

The Prince stirred from his unnatural stillness, whimpering and chasing his father’s touch as he pulled away.  Thranduil relented, cupping his boy’s soft cheek and lingering there.

“Come back to me _Thranduilion_ .   _Aphed an adal, melethron nîn.”_

 _“Adaen?”_ Legolas cried without opening his eyes.

“Look at me, little leaf.”

The young man shook his head, sounding so young, so lost.  “I will wake up and you will be gone.”

“I will never leave your side, _guren vell_ , not if you will have me.”

His dark lashes fluttered open, storm grey eyes pale with the fading as they met his true face.  There was surprise there, but not revulsion… not disgust.

“What has happened?” his son breathed, reaching out to cup Thranduil’s old wound.

“It was from long ago,” he murmured, leaning into his son’s touch.  “A dragon’s breath kissed my flesh and left its mark.”

“How have I not seen?”

Thranduil pressed his lips in Legolas’ palm, lingering there a moment before answering.  “I conceal it with illusion magic but the fading has stolen even that from me.”

 _“Ada,”_ he cried.  “Do not die.  I will do whatever you wish.  Take your lovers, I care not.”

“You are fading too, little leaf.  Tauriel brought you here so close to death.”

“Is that why I feel weak?”

Thranduil nodded.  “Who has broken your heart, my son, that you might forget how to live?”

For the first time since he’d opened them, Legolas turned his eyes away and Thranduil felt the loss keenly.

“Was it me, little leaf?  Do you love me as a husband might?”

Legolas rolled away, giving Thranduil his back.  “I know you do not feel the same,” his son confessed sullenly.  “I can put it aside, _ada_.  I swear.”

Thranduil moved closer, pressing his larger body around his boy’s.  “You are wrong, _meleth nîn_.  I love you.  I want you. I want you in my heart and in my bed.”

Legolas trembled, his boy’s hand finding one of his and pulling it to his heart, clinging to it like a child’s doll.  “Do not be cruel.”

“I thought,” Thranduil explained, “that you kissed me out of devotion, out of the love of a son.  But, I was wrong wasn’t I, little leaf? You saw the desire I feel for you and you return it.”

Legolas rolled in his arms, fast and predatory, pushing Thranduil onto his back.  “Swear you love me,” the Prince demanded, using the Sindarin for romantic love. “Swear it is true.”

Thranduil looked into his son’s adoring gaze and said, “Take the answer from my lips, _melethron nîn_.”

Legolas hands flattened against Thranduil’s chest, fingers pressing to his bare skin as his son leaned low.  For a moment he paused and all Thranduil could feel, could focus on was the barest space between their mouths, the breath of his love against his scars; not painful, but soothing.

Thranduil, unable to restrain himself, surged up and closed the gap, weeping at the perfection of it.

Legolas pulled back in shock, tears slipping from his eyes.  "It's true."

"Yes, dearest.  It is true."

His son kissed him again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sindarin translations:  
> Calenlasen - my green leaf  
> Elleth - elf-woman  
> Cidinn las - little leaf  
> Laegolas - green leaf  
> Aphed an adal meletron nîn - Come back to your father, beloved.  
> Adaen - my father, my dad  
> Guren vell - my sweet heart  
> Ada - father, daddy  
> Meleth nîn - my love
> 
> Quenya Translations:  
> Hanno - brother  
> Heldë - friend  
> Ellon - Elf


	3. The Heart of the Wood

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello lovely readers! I would like to say that here kicks off the plot, what plot? portion of this fiasco! There might be a bit later but mostly it is going to be pure fluffy goodness and smut. I take requests! It there's any compromising situations you'd like to get our men into you can comment below or send me a message on my tumblr!  
> www.tumblr.com/blog/wonderdyke

When his father kissed him, it was everything he’d desired even if the press of Thranduil’s scars was strange where they touched his cheek.  When the King’s tongue snaked out and licked along his lip seeking entrance, Legolas gasped, his father pressing the advantage to steal into the warmth of his mouth and slide along his tongue.

He was sensitive there, more delicate than he realised, as the press of his father into him ignited feelings he did not know he could experience.  His _adaen_ pulled back enough to nip at the swell of his lower lip, eliciting a desperate groan of pleasure.

The King rolled them both, pressing Legolas beneath him and into the violet sheets of his bed.  Legolas’ body seemed to have its own designs as it arched up and pressed pelvis to pelvis. He could feel the heat of his father’s cock even between their clothes.

“Take me, _adaen_ ,” Legolas pleaded, hands skittering desperately over Thranduil’s bare chest.

“No, _calenlasen_ ,” he sighed, leaning far enough away that Legolas could not reach him with his mouth.

 _“Please,”_ he begged, mindless with need.

“Shh, _melethron nîn_ , be still.”

Legolas settled beneath his father, feeling safer than he could ever recall feeling as the King’s long body stretched over and around him, blond hair spilling like a pale fall of moonlight around his face.  The midday sun was bright through the open windows, the King’s bedroom nestled at the highest point in the forest valley.

“Good boy,” his father purred, pressing lips into his neck.

Legolas groaned, body spiking with heat at even that little contact.

“By the Valar, you are sensitive, my son.”

“You feel,” Legolas gasped as Thranduil trailed biting kisses down the column of his neck, “like perfection.  Wherever you touch me… _ada!”_  Legolas cried out as Thranduil sunk sharp teeth into the juncture of neck and shoulder, sucking a dark mark into the flesh as he clung to his father’s embrace.

“Mine,” Thranduil growled into his ear as he pulled back. _“Laseg.”_

“Yours, _ada_.”

“Come,” his father said, rising from the bed.

It was between one blink and the next that his glamour returned, face perfection once more.  “You need not hide yourself from me, _ada_.”

Thranduil nodded, an affectionate smile curling his lips.  “I prefer to appear thus but, on occasion, I will allow you to see me as I am.  Only you, and never any other.”

Legolas beamed, scrambling haphazardly to follow as his father crossed the room and opened the door to the outer chamber, he spoke briefly with someone before returning to Legolas and pulling him close.

“Are you certain this is what you want, _laseg_?  For when I have you, I will never be able to part with you.  I am a jealous and possessive father and King. I am sure I will be more as a lover.”

“Certain beyond all measure, _aranen_ ,” Legolas said, smiling into his father’s uncertain features.

“All will know,” Thranduil murmured softly, cupping his cheek.  “There is no way to keep such a secret.”

“I _want_ all to know, _ada_.  Let them see that I am yours,” his fingers, unbidden, brushed aside the collar of his thin shift to press into the mark his father had bestowed.

Thranduil ducked down to look in Legolas’ eyes.  “I am yours as well, _las nîn_.  I have always been thus from the moment you were born.”

Legolas felt colour rise to his cheeks and he ducked his head, letting his eyes flutter closed and bask in the sensation of his _ada’s_ thumbs across his jaw.

“Still, people will be cruel.”

“I doubt,” Legolas murmured, still not looking, “that they will do so within our hearing.  A privilege of kingship.”

Thranduil chuckled, the sound warm and pleasant to his hearing.  “I cannot imprison everyone who will call this a perversion.”

Legolas’ head did snap up then, meeting his father’s gaze.  “It is not wrong when between two who can consent and when done in love.”

His King looked sweetly vulnerable as if something in Legolas’ words eased an uncertainty.  “It pleases me to hear you say that.”

 _“Ada,”_ he murmured, winding his hand to the back of his father’s neck and pulling him down.  “Press your ear to mine.”

Thranduil trembled where his body met his son’s, shaking like thin branches in the wind but he did not object.  Rather than bending, he lifted Legolas into his arms like he had done when the Prince had been much smaller.

Instinctively, he wrapped his legs around his father’s waist, clinging to powerful shoulders.

The King peered up at him, expression inscrutable before saying, “Do it, if you wish to know.”

Without hesitation, Legolas leaned in, pausing only to exhale over the sensitive shell of Thranduil’s helix before he turned his head and slotted ear to ear.

Legolas felt the pull of magic within his belly, the ancient song sung by the first of his kind welling up into his reckoning.  He heard it in his soul, the tambour and pulse of the ancient music. His song, alone.

Then, suddenly, he could hear Thranduil’s in his mind and they… they were of a kind.  Thranduil’s song pulsed lower and more forcefully but the music was the same. His father was meant for him.

Legolas could not countenance time, unsure of how much had passed when he finally pulled away to look into his father’s shocked gaze.

“I dared not hope,” the King muttered.

“I thought it was myth,” Legolas replied before drinking from his father’s lips.  When he pulled away he said fiercely, “Let the people talk. Let any talk. You are for me, _ada_.  Even Manwë knows this.”

Thranduil, seemingly unaffected by Legolas’ weight, released one hand to reach up and bury his fingers in Legolas’ pale hair, nails scraping along the scalp.  Legolas groaned wantonly, lightning pleasure skittering down his spine.

“My clever boy,” Thranduil praised warmly.  

He felt his father move, felt the shift of his body as he walked somewhere but Legolas could not open his eyes as Thranduil continued to drag his hand along the tender skin of his scalp.  It was not until his father’s steps began to echo oddly that he opened them to see they were in a bathing chamber.

Above, the canopy of woven branches parted to allow rain to fall into the sunken pool formed of wood and vine.  With a flick of magic, the runes set around the rim began to glow and heat.  Legolas unwound his legs, Thranduil setting him down slowly, almost regretfully.

Something must have shown on Legolas’ face for the King said, “It has been a long time since I felt free to hold you in my arms, _laseg_.  I find I have missed it.”

He stepped close to his father, winding his arms around the bare trim waist, far more sculpted than he had imagined in his lonely nights, and closed the little distance between them.  “I hope you will touch me whenever you wish, _vell aranen_.”

They lingered like that for long moments, Legolas basking in the ability to simply touch without restraint as Thranduil cradled his son’s head against the soft skin of his chest.

“I brought you in here,” Thranduil gently teased, “so that we might bathe, my love.”

Nodding, Legolas stepped away and began peeling off his clothes with a soldier’s lack of modesty.  When he looked back, hands plucking at the laces of his trousers and chest already bared, Thranduil was staring with his mouth agape.

He smiled wickedly, giving more confidence than he truly felt.  “Does my father like what his seed has wrought?”

Thranduil groaned loudly, the sound unguarded and wanting.  “I have ever found you beautiful, Legolas. You have been a temptation to me since your body became a man’s.”

 _“Ai?”_ he muttered, dragging open the closure on his trousers.  He did not need to look at himself to know he’d revealed a thatch of pale hair.

 _“Meleth nîn,_ ” The King breathed, voice tremulous with tender desire.  “Perhaps this was a poorly thought idea.”

Legolas slipped from his leggings, kicking them aside and finally baring himself entirely to his father’s eyes.  “Why do you think that?”

“I would have you now,” Thranduil confessed roughly, hands clenching and unclenching as he tried to master his emotions, “and I would not be kind.”

Legolas could not stay the heat his father’s words conjured within him, the idea of Thranduil pinning him harshly and claiming his body twisted some maddening desire low in his belly.

“Does my leaf like that?” the King asked, always seeing much with his stormy gaze.

Legolas managed to nod.

“Oh, _iônen_ , you truly are for me,” he revered even as he closed the distance between them once more.  “But not,” he murmured into the shell of Legolas’ ear, “our first time, I think.”

Hands, large and warm circled Legolas’ biceps, smoothed down over the skin prickled with gooseflesh.

“Our first time,” Thranduil whispered, “I would make love to you.  To show you the affection I have long denied.”

The King’s hot tongue flicked out, licking up the ridge of Legolas’ ear.

He gasped, knees trembling even as his father moved closer and pressed his teeth to the lobe, tugging gently.  If not for Thranduil’s hands cradling him, he would have collapsed to the floor, such was the pleasure in the act.  His cock, freed from the uncomfortable tightness of his trousers, was swollen and proud, ruddy against the pale flesh of his belly.  He longed for release.

“Please, _adaen_ ,” he begged, “I ache.”

“Do not worry, _iônen_ ,” Thranduil soothed, setting him on his feet before his hands worked open his own loose bottoms, “I will see to your needs… all of them.”

As the silken material dropped to the floor, freeing the length of his sire to his eyes, Legolas had to bite his lip to keep from crying out.  He father was only a bit longer than himself in that regard, but thicker and the length of him was weeping its need. Legolas desired to go to his knees and please his King but he knew not the way of it.

“Will you,” he asked past the lump of arousal in his throat, “teach me the way men pleasure each other?  Will you show me how to make you happy?” Legolas reached out nervously, but palmed his father’s cock as his might his own, sighing at the soft weight of him.

Thranduil grunted at his touch, a broken needful sound that had Legolas grinning in delight.  “Yes, my leaf. I will. Now…” Thranduil tugged his hand away, guiding him to the steps of the bath and easing them both into the warm water.

The King sat upon a deep ledge and Legolas was all too eager to scramble into his lap as he did when he was young, though never when they were bare.  Thranduil, seemingly content, held him there, arousals banking in the wake of tender nuzzling affection.

After a time, his father guided him to sit beside, brushing Legolas half wet hair over his shoulder and easing him back.  He settled between his father’s splayed legs, the weight of the King's cock nudging at the small of Legolas’ back. With gentle fingers, his _ada_ began to unwind his braids, those of rank, blood and accomplishment until he was truly naked; stripped, of all clothing and identity.

It was disarming, being thus revealed, down to only his flesh and soul but Legolas found comfort in it too.  He was stripped vulnerable in his _ada’s_ care but none would harm him lest they suffer the wrath of the Elvenking.

Thranduil himself rarely wore his braids, the king needing little in the way of introduction in his own kingdom but Legolas had always enjoyed when Celeborn or Elrond would visit, even Galadriel, though her countenance irked the Elvenking.  When visiting royalty came, Thranduil would wear the complicated loops across his diagonal of his head, the fishtail braid that matched Legolas’ - the style a declaration of his Sindarin blood - and the tiny braids over his ears, not tight to the scalp like his own - which declared him an archer for any who could read it - but loose and long, the style of one accomplished in magic.

The Elvenking in all his glory.

Feeling bold, Legolas reached behind and swept a bit of the king’s damp hair forward over his shoulder, laying his father’s tresses atop his own.  They were of a kind, a perfect match in colour. His father’s was incredibly long, trailing across his chest and pooling atop the water.

The King pressed a kiss to his temple but did not command him to stop as he loosely braided their locks together before untangling them and doing it again.

Thranduil, it seemed, was content to let him play as he settled himself, wrapping an arm beneath the blanket of their hair to hold Legolas close.

“What are you thinking, my King?”

Legolas could feel the press of his father’s smile against the side of his head.  “A great many things, little leaf. But, mostly, how I thought I could ever be without you, like this.  I so feared to lose my son that I denied even myself the knowledge of the depth of my feelings for you.”

He smiled, content as he stopped braiding and leaned back into his father’s embrace.  Thranduil had always been a doting father, save for the rare occasion when Legolas had defied him, but as a lover his was practically _effusive_.  Legolas found he liked the affection, the easy manner between them.

Under the pretence of stretching, Legolas arched up and looped his strong arms around his father’s neck, pulling the King’s superior height down to curve over him.  Craning his neck, Legolas offered up his lips and Thranduil seemed happy to claim them, plucking gentle moans of pleasure from him as one might from a harp.

 _“Adaen,”_ he sighed as the King pulled away, fingertips caressing over the shell of Legolas’ ear before trailing down his neck to circle his throat.  He gasped in surprise as his cock ached painfully but though he was at his father’s mercy, Thranduil did not claim mastery over his breath, merely possessed the right to do so for long moments before releasing him.

When his father’s finger and thumb circle the tight bud of his nipple and tugged, he cried out as if suddenly wounded.

“Please,” Legolas begged, writhing even as his King pinned him to his chest.  “Please, _ada_ , I need release!”

“Then I shall give it to you,” he murmured against his son’s ear, the hot breath of him sending more painful desire crackling down Legolas’ spine.

Thranduil slipped up to the rim of the tub, only his long legs perched on the bench remained within the water.  There were bottles of oils, of soaps arranged between the rim and the wall where massive windows were glassed with colourful motes, the afternoon sun streaming through and painting a riot of hues across the floor, pink and blues swirling on the white canvass of Thranduil’s hair.  The King’s long fingers choose one, opening the crystal and pouring a healthy measure of fragrant oil into his hand.

He smeared it over his cock and his belly before reaching out with the other and beckoning.  “Come here, my child.”

At Thranduil’s gentle coaxing, Legolas sat astride his father’s powerful thighs, two proud cocks brushing between their stomachs as his father poured more oil over his length, spreading it over his own hard stomach.

“You will be quick,” Thranduil murmured, voice soft in reverent adoration, “your first time.  All are. Do not hold back. I would see you come undone.”

Legolas nodded, lower lip bitten between his teeth as Thranduil pulled him close, squeezed their cocks tightly in the press of their bodies.  When his father-king surged up, the ruddy alabaster length of him sliding along Legolas’ own cock, he cried out, the tight clench of their stomachs slippery perfection around the furnace of their arousals.

 _“Ada,”_ Legolas whimpered, pale head dropping to his father’s shoulder as the King took all control, moving them together, squeezing him hard around his middle that his breath was tight in his ribs.   _“Milen.  Adaen,”_ he whispered, affection dropping from his lips as he trembled against his father’s strong body.   _“Gi milen… gi milen, adaen.”_

 _“Gi milen,”_ Thranduil replied, lips so close to Legolas’ ear he felt the brush of lips against his skin as his father spoke.   _“Gi milen, laegolas.  Gi milen, laseg nîn. Iônen.”_

“I - “ Legolas gasped as his release built like a fire in the forest that raged when it touched dry wood, he was consumed as it burned through him, over him.   _“Ada!”_ he shouted, sure that he would expire from such pleasure.  Certain that he was facing his own destruction in his King’s arms.   _“Adaen,_ it is too much!” he hissed, tears flooding into his father’s hair.  “I - I - “

Thranduil’s gentle touch caressed up the length of his back, words a benediction as he murmured, “Give way, _meleth nîn_.  Release for me.”

Like a bowstring drawn too taut, his father’s words unlocked some pressure within him and he snapped, hips jerking mindlessly as he spilt between their stomachs, seed joining oil in a messy amalgam.

“Good boy,” Thranduil praised.  “Such an obedient son.”

Legolas sagged in his arms, boneless and weak in the aftermath of his powerful climax.  Thranduil did not seem to mind, leaning back far enough to take himself in hand and stroke the heated length of his own cock.  Legolas watched through lidded eyes as his father groaned, making desperate noises. When he thought Thranduil might be on the edge of release, he licked the silken edge of his father’s ear and whispered, “Cover me in your seed, _adaen_.  Claim me for your own.”

Thranduil made a surprised noise of pleasure, cock spurting viscous fluid like moonlight rendered into liquid form across Legolas’ belly and chest.

The King sagged against him, both holding each other up in their mutual exhaustion.  Thranduil recovered first, cradling him as he slid them back into the water, soft hands washing away the evidence of their lovemaking.  Legolas was sad to see it go and reminded himself that next time he had to taste of his father’s seed.

“You are a treasure,” Thranduil murmured into the curve of his jaw, gentle and sweet.

He followed the King’s instructions, moving as he was told as Thranduil washed them both.  When he cleansed Legolas’ long hair, he went boneless in his father’s arms uncertain what was more pleasurable, the sex or the touches in the wake of it.

“May I wash yours?” he asked when Thranduil had finished.

“If you wish it, _iônen.”_

“Very much,” he said, moving behind his father and using the pitcher to soak the length of it.  As pure-blooded elves there was some magic within their hair that kept it from tangling so, when Legolas dragged his fingers through the long tresses, they slipped easily through his hand.

He washed his father’s hair slowly, luxuriating in the right to touch so intimately, dragging fingers along his _ada’s_ scalp as the King groaned in pleasure.  He massaged down his neck, dragged his thumbs over Thranduil’s ears, before rinsing away the suds and then tracing everywhere with his lips over and over until the water had long become cold and his feet were aching from being wet for too long.

As if reading his thoughts the King bade, “Let us get out.”

Legolas followed closely as the King rose, draining the pool before he knelt before his son and dried him gently.  Legolas had never had another touch him so intimately and he was hard again before Thranduil had finished.

The King placed a gentle kiss on the flushed head of his length before he stood, a smile dancing in his eyes.  “Soon, _iônen,_ soon.  First,” he murmured as he guided Legolas back into the royal chambers, “we should eat and rest.  The fading takes time to reverse.”

“I feel incredible.”

Thranduil murmured his agreement but said, “You will tire easily.  Besides, I long to hold you in my arms.”

The King pushed the door open, his chambers had been cleaned in their absence.  New, dark green sheets were upon the bed and a meal sat waiting for them by the fire.

 _“Ada,”_ Legolas whispered, stepping into his father’s tender embrace.  “I love you.”

Thranduil pressed a kiss to his brow.  “And I, you, my little leaf.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sindarin Translations:  
> Adaen - my father  
> calenlasen - my green leaf  
> melethron nîn - my beloved  
> ada - father  
> Laseg - little leaf  
> aranen - my king  
> las nîn - my leaf  
> vell aranen - my beloved king  
> ai - oh  
> meleth nîn - my love  
> iônen - my son  
> milen - my love  
> gi milen - I love you  
> laseg nîn - my little leaf  
> laegolas - greenleaf


	4. In the Shade of a Greater Tree

Legolas was more tired than he had expected, exhaustion claiming him even as he tried to eat.  It was his father’s soft command ordering him to rise that made him realise he had passed into rest in his chair.

“Do you wish me to return to my chambers,  _ ada _ ?” he asked as he took Thranduil’s arm, leaning heavily as his father helped him.

“No,  _ calen laseg nîn, _ ” the King murmured into his temple, fingers stroking through his hair in an intimate caress.  “I would have you here always.”

Legolas whimpered a pleased sound, nuzzling into the hollow at the base of his father’s neck even as the older  _ ellon _ guided him between the silken sheets.  He watched with heavy-lidded eyes as his  _ ada _ moved around the room in only a dressing gown, it’s length trailing on the floor.  Thranduil had left it untied, the naked glory of his body uncovered where it failed to hide the centre of him, the long line of pale skin and narrow hips, his cock somnolent but no less tempting in its slumber.

Rather, the black silk adorned all over with leaves and vines stitched into the luxurious cloth, served only to frame Thranduil’s beauty by contrast.  His hair spilled down the black silk of his back, pooling in the middle of the gown as it dragged behind his father’s steps, the material trailing upon the ground like a bride’s gown.  Legolas was so lost in the rolling hardness of muscles, the broad shoulders and trim waist that he failed to notice the King’s eyes upon him.

“Does my son like the tree from which he was seeded?”

Legolas groaned his arousal, cock making a valiant effort to stir despite his body’s soul-deep exhaustion.  “ _ Ada _ , you are more beautiful than the stars that I would pull down and rest upon your brow.”

Thranduil extinguished the magical flames in the fireplace, returning to the bedside and dropping his robe to the floor before sliding in beside him.  “Where did my little leaf learn to speak such pretty things? Seducing the people of the kingdom?”

He blushed, shaking his head before rolling to bury his face in Thranduil’s silken neck.  “Never,  _ ada _ .  I am yours alone.”

“I am gladdened to hear it, blood of my blood.”  the King pulled him close until his head rest over the steady pulse of his father’s heart.  “Are you comfortable,  _ laseg _ ?”

Legolas nodded, already exhaustion claiming him.  “Do not go.”

“Never,” Thranduil gasped, the word gusting across his brow.  “I am here,  _ iônen, _ and shall be when you wake.”

Legolas slept deeply and long, resting through the midday and the dinner hour only to waken when the moon was high, his father curled around his back and holding him close.  Thranduil slept, one long leg slung over Legolas’ narrow hips, his arms wound around the Prince’s muscled chest and his face tucked into the curve of Legolas’ shoulder, breathing deeply of his scent.

He snuggled deeper into his  _ ada’s _ warmth, the King’s long hair spread over his body like another bedsheet.  Legolas could not stay his hands from touching the silken locks and bringing the strands to his lips. 

_ “Gi milen, adi,”  _ Legolas murmured, using the name he’d once called his father when he’d first been learning his words.  It was nonsense and infantile. He’d called his father by the endearment for far too long but, once put aside in his movement into adulthood, Legolas had never spoken it again, though he often longed to.

It seemed strange to say it after he had taken Thranduil for his lover, to invoke his youth in such a way and yet he could not regret the impulses of his tongue.

“Say it again,  _ las nîn.” _

Legolas startled at Thranduil’s softly spoken words, having believed his father asleep.  His cheeks burned with embarrassment as he said,  _ “gi milen, adi.” _

Thranduil sighed, body shivering in pleasure.  “I have missed that word from your lips.”

“Truly?”

The King nodded, raising his head so that the tips of their ears brushed together.  “Say it again,” he bade, breath ghosting against the flushed tips of his helix.

_ “Adi,” _ Legolas whimpered, body heating with the tension of sexual promise between them.  

Thranduil was hard as walnut against the curve of his backside, cock a fiery brand against his skin.

He used his skills as a warrior to roll and pin the King beneath him, straddling his father’s hips.  The soft petals of Thranduil’s lip parted in surprise and Legolas was compelled to lean down and press his own against their heat.

_ “Laseg nîn _ ,” Thranduil sighed into his mouth, long, elegant fingers rising to cup Legolas’ neck, to play along the ridges of his ears until he was whimpering and grinding mindlessly onto his father’s cock.

Legolas bent forward, curling onto his  _ ada _ ’s chest and trembling.  Desire filling him and he, ready to burst.   _ “Adi _ ,” he managed in a small voice, dragging his cheek against the wild pulse of Thranduil’s heart.  “I ache.”

“What would you have of me, little leaf?” the King asked, reaching to work his hand between their bodies, to stroke his cock.

“I want you to claim me, to fuck me.”  Legolas’ ears burned at the bald confession but he continued, “I want to take you within me,  _ adi _ .  I want to be held, safe in your arms, and lose myself to pleasure.”  He sat up, meeting his father’s gaze with his matched eyes. “I want you to fill me with your seed.”

_ “Legolas _ ,” Thranduil hissed, gripping his hips as the King’s long body arched in pleasure.  “Are you certain? There is much pleasure to be had without…” Long fingers played down the crevasse of his backside. “ - without subjugating yourself to my desires.  You are my beloved, Legolas, not some lesser  _ ellon _ to take my fullness like a common whore.”

Heat spiked through his body at the vulgarities dropping from his father’s lips even as shame twisted through him.  Legolas didn’t want to speak the demands of his heart but he had never lied to his  _ ada _ .  “I have ever been your lesser, father.  I want only to serve you with devotion. But, more than that, I  _ long _ to be your whore.  To be used for my King’s pleasure.”  Legolas could not look away from his hands, worrying against his  _ ada’s _ belly as he exposed his secret shames.  “I want to be your  _ iôn _ , too.  I want to feel small and young in your arms while you claim my body.  Teach me every pleasure, debase me in every manner. I am yours.”

He squealed in surprise as Thranduil’s arm snaked around his waist, twisting them until he was pinned beneath the length of his  _ ada _ , helpless in his arms.  “Look at me,  _ laseg _ .”  He dragged his eyes off the thrumming pulse hammering at Thranduil’s neck to look into his King’s lightning streaked eyes.  “You please me in so many ways, little leaf. I dared not hope your desires would match mine so utterly. But, I must say something and you need hear it.”

Legolas nodded, biting his lower lip even as he focused on his  _ adar’s _ words like he was back in his lessons.  

The King’s thumb eased his lip free of his teeth with aching tenderness.  “I want to claim you, to debase you, to turn you into my filthy whore serving me on bended knee.”

Legolas trembled in longing as his father’s fingers caressed down his face.

“But I do it out of love, for I feel the kind of mindless devotion for you,  _ iônen, _ as you feel for me.  I want to bring you low, to make you beg because it is how I worship you, my leaf.  I want to humiliate you, not because I think less of you, but because I feel so much  _ more _ .  I will claim you and call you my whore and you will feel shame.  But, you will know that when I say such things they are tokens of the highest honour.  I will sup every obscene pleasure from your body, my little leaf, and I will do it because you are  _ mine. _

“Son of a King.  Consort and beloved.  Whore to his own  _ ada _ .”  Thranduil’s palm smoothed up his chest, over the sharp rise and fall of his breathing and the rapid, desperate thunder of his heart.  “You have never known another’s touch and never will,  _ iônen _ .  Because I’ve made you mine… my possession… my boy.”

Legolas burned with the need for his father’s touch, the furnace of his arousal unbearable after the litany of Thranduil’s words.   _ “Please,” _ he wept, uncaring of the tears of desperation that fell from his eyes.  “Please,  _ adi _ , make me yours.”

“Oh,” Thranduil sighed, “my son.”

~***~

Thranduil rested but slept little as his son whiled away the hours in slumber.  For the first time in such a long time, he found he could glut himself on the sight of his leaf, on the touch of his skin and the sound of his soft breaths.  He found a languorous happiness in watching the angle of the sun play over his son’s pale face, fan of dark eyelashes smudges across his cheeks.

To think he’d almost lost his leaf for want of his love.

Legolas had always had his love.   _ Always _ .

From the moment he’d been born, Thranduil had cleaved to him.  Some believed it was because Legolas was the remnant of his wife.  But, while he’d loved her, he had never loved her so dearly as the child she bore him.

Thranduil had been one of many children as he’d grown to adulthood but Legolas had grown up alone, a Crown Prince and an only child but, more than that, he’d been birthed on the cusp of  _ war _ .  It was not uncommon for his people to forsake childbearing in times of turmoil.

Legolas had been the only child in the entirety of his realm for nearly his whole life.

Thranduil had ached for his boy’s loneliness and done all he could to ease it, spending long hours in play with his leaf.  Legolas had taught him to laugh again, to find joy in the motes of dust in sunlight, to find happiness in a rainstorm.

Legolas had reminded him how to love, love with a fierceness that he would bring mountains low to protect.

Thranduil could not bring himself to care what the people might say, a privilege of Kingship, indeed.  Nothing short of death would separate them and, even then he imagined his soul would fly away to be with its mate.

Thranduil tucked his face into his son’s neck and shut his eyes, letting time drift by measured only in gentle breaths and beloved heartbeats.

Then his leaf stirred, called him  _ adi _ and he was unmade and reborn in that word.

It was a darkness to want to blend the youthful play they once shared with the fulsome desires of their adult love.  Thranduil had not been able to place aside the wish for his son to call him  _ adi _ once more, to kiss the child’s word from his lips.

He didn’t just desire his son...

He desired to debauch him, to bring him low in every manner.  Thranduil wanted to love with wickedness and deviance. He wanted to fuck his son like a whore, to dress him in garish silks and cut them away from his body, to use his beloved as an object of his pleasure.

He dared not imagine a world where such a thing was possible.

Unknowing of his conflict, Legolas, his  _ iônen _ , offered him everything… offered himself.

His boy’s desperate tears unmade him, his plea of, “Please,  _ adi, _ make me yours,” a command to his very soul.

Thranduil kissed him slowly, tenderly, trying to bank the ardour in his son’s small frame but Legolas was beyond such soothing, writhing with a mindlessness that made Thranduil ache to take him roughly and fiercely.  He would. But not their first time.

“I am going to bring your release,  _ iônen _ ,” Thranduil murmured, kissing Legolas’ sweat-damp brow.  “Then I am going to wring pleasures from your body that you have not even imagined.”

_ “Please,” _ Legolas whimpered, arching into the caress of Thranduil’s fingers down the column of his neck, over the dancing muscles in his abdomen until he wrapped his hand around his son’s length.

Thranduil barely touched his leaf, had not gripped him with purpose nor stroked him with intent before he cried out in surprise and spilt over his own belly.

It was a thing of beauty, watching his child become so easily unmade at his touch, the flush of arousal across his cheeks and down his body receeding as he panted desperate breaths.  

Thranduil crawled down his  _ las nîn _ to clean the seed with his tongue.  Legolas gasped as Thranduil licked up his child’s essence, the liquid tangy on his palette.

_ “Ada,” _ Legolas murmured in shock, “you need not - “

“Everything I do,” Thranduil reassured, curling his long fingers over the sharp flare of his leaf’s hips, “is for my pleasure or yours.  Fear not, my little leaf, I want to taste of you.”

“It is not - I am your lesser,  _ adi _ .  You should not debase yourself for me.”

He closed his eyes as he growled in displeasure.  “My child’s flesh could never debase me. In here,” Thranduil said softly but with a ferociousness that had Legolas’ trembling beneath him, “we may do as we desire without worry.  This is your home, Legolas. My chambers are always safe for the perversions of our souls.” He rose up, looming over his leaf as his magic rode his body making him seem larger than he was.  He bent low to whisper against the shell of Legolas’ ear, “I will strike any dead who make you think what we do is wrong.”

His boy shivered, hands splaying over the wide cage of Thranduil’s chest.

Legolas’ eyes had fallen closed, his head tilting to the side to offer up the mark Thranduil had already laid into his flesh.

Thranduil, with the barest thread of magic, summoned a bottle of pleasure oil to his hand.

“Now, my dearest child,” he murmured lovingly, “I am going to fuck you like the whore you are.”

_ “Yes, adi,” _ Legolas breathed.


	5. To the Root

Thranduil’s lips were a furnace of desire against his skin, sending rippling heat from wherever they touched and, oh, how they touched.  Every bit of flesh, every hidden crook of his body that had never known another… Thranduil found every one. His  _ ada’s _ lips wrung desperate moans from his throat until he was mindless with pleasure once more.

_ “Adi!” _ he cried, gasping as his father licked the dampness from behind one knee.

“Yes, my leaf?”

“It is too much,” he sobbed.  “I am overfull with it.”

“Shh,” Thranduil soothed, humming softly and abandoning his exploration of the sensitive flesh to pull Legolas against his chest.  “I have had a fair few virgins, my leaf, and yet I have known none as easily undone as you.”

“I’m sorry,” Legolas said, cleaving desperately to his King’s embrace.  “I should be stronger.”

“No,  _ laseg _ , no,” Thranduil said softly, dropping gentle kisses to his son’s gleaming pale shoulders.  “It is a thing of beauty.” He brushed Legolas’ hair back, revealing another pale stretch of flesh.

“May I?” Legolas asked through tear-heavy lashes, reaching for Thranduil’s locks.

The King chuckled.  “You have ever been obsessed with my hair, my little leaf.”

“It is beautiful and smells of winter sunshine.”

“It is exactly like your own,” Thranduil teased, dropping a gentle kiss to his son’s chin.  “And yes,  _ milen _ , you may.”

Legolas dragged the entirety of it over Thranduil’s shoulder so that it cascaded between them, burying his face in the pale strands and breathing deeply.  The King returned to his ministrations, Legolas losing himself in the freedom to play with his father’s beautiful strands as Thranduil likewise revelled in the right to touch with such familiarity.

The King’s patience, it seemed, was not endless as he dropped a kiss to the hollow of Legolas’ throat before pressing him back until he was looking up at his  _ ada’s _ lust soaked features.

“I would have you, now,” Thranduil murmured, licking along the shell of his ear before nipping at the skin, ripping a gasp of pleasure from Legolas’ mouth.  “Onto your stomach,  _ iônen _ .”

“I want to see you,  _ adi _ .  I want to watch your face as you fill me.”

Thranduil groaned a desperate aching noise, dropping his forehead to Legolas’ shoulder as he trembled.  “You have no conception of what your words do to me, my leaf, else you would not say them with such innocence.”

_ “Adi?” _

“Shh, it is only my intent to make the passage easier.  Turn over, little leaf, so I may prepare you.”

Legolas released Thranduil’s hair, pouting as he did but rolled over obediently giving Thranduil the visage of the long line of his back, the pale globes of his bottom, the strong archer’s legs.

“You are beautiful beyond measure,  _ iônen.” _

Legolas flipped the mane of his hair, looking over his shoulder to meet his father’s adoring eyes.  “I am of you,  _ adi _ .  Are you complimenting yourself?”

“No,  _ iônen.  _  Everything you took from me is more lovely within you.  I cannot express…  _ laseg _ …”  His father bowed his head, nipping the dip between Legolas’ shoulders.  

A curl of magic brought the bottle of pleasure oil to his fingers and he rested the glass upon the side table, pulling the glass dipper from within and trailing it gently over the crease of his backside.  Legolas watched as his father replaced it, nervous tension vibrating through his body. He wanted it, but he expected it would hurt.

“Relax, my love.  Breathe deeply for me.”

“Will it pain me?”

“No.  We will go slowly.  I would not harm you,  _ iônen. _  I cannot.  I will teach you the delight of sharper pleasures someday but not this one.  It would help, my leaf, if you would relax.”

Legolas took a deep breath, filling his lungs with cool night air.  Thranduil continued to soothe him with gentle words as Legolas felt his  _ adi _ part the mounds of his bottom, slip a finger to dance along the pucker of his entrance.

“I am going to cleanse you with a spell,” Thranduil warned before Legolas felt the prickle of magic within his channel.

_ “Adi,” _ Legolas whimpered, arching into the frisson of energy.

“My precious leaf,” Thranduil murmured, clever fingers dancing along the sensitive flesh in ways Legolas had never conceived could give such pleasure, “how I adore you, my son.  How I will always adore you. You are mine, now. We are bound for the long years of our lives. I will raise you up,  _ laseg _ , and make you one with me.  I would wed you and take you for my own.”

“Ada,” Legolas huffed, his father’s words unmaking him even as the King’s fingers continued to coax and tease until he thought he might shatter in need of being filled.

“I will make you King beside me,  _ laseg _ .”

Legolas thought to object, to say he wasn’t worthy of it only for the words to be choked off in a pleasured gasp as his father pressed a slim digit into him.

“How does that feel?” Thranduil asked.

“Strange,” Legolas murmured.  “Wonderful.”

“No pain?”

“No pain,  _ adi _ .”

“My good boy,” Thranduil praised, nipping biting kisses across Legolas’ shoulders.  It served only to relax him further and when Thranduil pressed a second finger beside the first it was just as easy.  “Now,” the King said, “I will show you the pleasure of this.”

“It is pleasing already,  _ adi _ .”

Thranduil’s fingers did…  _ something _ though Legolas could not countenance  _ what _ and there was a sudden bright spark of pleasure, sharp and intense.  It came on so suddenly that, for a moment, his mind believed it pain. Legolas arched, cried out only to realise it was  _ good _ … very, very good. 

He gasped, sagging back against the soft silken sheets.

“Did you enjoy that?”

“I have… never known such pleasure.”

“I have much to teach you, my love.  We have eternity to discover every part of each other.”

“Yes,” Legolas sighed, welcoming yet another finger within him.  It burned a little as if he’d stood too close to the evening fires, but felt pleasurable as well so he did not voice it.

Thranduil added more oil, drizzling much of the softly fragranced liquid directly into his passage, fingers working the slick deeper and deeper.

“Please,  _ adi _ ,” he whimpered.  “I want to see you.  I want you within me.”

“If I take you so soon, there will be fire at my entry.”

“I can’t withstand it.  I  _ want _ to,  _ adi _ .  I want  _ you _ .”

Thranduil’s tongue licked a stripe along his shoulder, curling and teasing the sensitive ridge of his ear.  “I confess I am similarly impatient but I would not have you regret your eagerness,  _ iônen.” _

“I could never regret,” Legolas said earnestly, “a moment of your touch.”

Thranduil shivered, Legolas could feel it where their bodies pressed together, before lacing their hands.  “You unmake me, my love.”

“Not I,  _ adi _ .  For the first time… I feel… whole.”

Thranduil’s gentle hands guided him to lay once more on his back and when he met his father’s gaze… the King  _ was unmade _ .  His cool, arrogant confidence shattered apart with a desperate longing, a deep pained affection as he whispered, “If you wish to change your mind,  _ laseg _ , now is the time to speak it.”

“Never,” Legolas hissed.  “This is all I have ever desired.  Claim me,  _ adi _ .  Make me yours.”

Thranduil’s hands trembled as he pushed Legolas’ legs up to rest around his  _ ada’s _ waist.  He watched the powerful vibration of his father’s flesh as he slicked more oil along his length until finally… finally!... Legolas could feel the blunt head of his  _ adi’s _ cock pressing against him, demanding entrance.

“We will go slowly,  _ iônen _ , and you will remember to breathe.”

Legolas nodded fiercely, a little fear finding its way back into his chest.  He gathered up his father’s hair and clung to it, sucking in lungfuls of the familiar scent.

Thranduil pressed into him and it was Legolas’ turn to be unmade.

It hurt, yes, for Thranduil’s cock was thicker than his three fingers but, truly, the pain was little.  It was the pleasure, the bolt of blinding hot  _ rightness _ that made him anew, ripping him apart at the smallest bits of him and reconfiguring Legolas into someone who  _ belonged _ .  He was claimed by his father in that moment and he knew… _ he knew _ he would never know another.

Thranduil shifted his knees under himself, working into Legolas in short controlled thrusts even as he bent his head and pressed their ears together.  Legolas heard the music of their souls singing in triumph, two people perfectly match and recognising its mate.

“I love you, _ adi _ ,” Legolas murmured, nuzzling into Thranduil’s shoulder and gasping at the sparks of pleasure he could feel where their ears touched.

“And I, you, my leaf… my love… my son.”

They remained like that - ear to ear - as Thranduil worked slowly into his boy.  The pressure of it grew, his father’s cock splitting him open and undoing him… surely there was not so much room within him?  There must have been a bottom to the well of his passage… could Thranduil even fit?

“Relax, my love.”

Legolas whimpered, “You are so  _ big _ .”

“Someday, you will be thankful for it,” Thranduil chuckled.  “Do you wish me to stop?”

“Can you fit?  Is it possible?”

“ _ Lá, iônen, _ it is possible.”

“Then I want all of you,” Legolas said firmly, pressing down to where his  _ ada _ had split him open and gasping with the painful pleasure of it.

“Easy, love,” Thranduil admonished gently.  “You need not be so eager. Time is a luxury for our kind.”

He nodded, relaxing back into the pillows with his armful of his  _ ada’s _ locks.  His father would know, would guide him.

The king reached for his prick, stroking Legolas in time with his gentle, rocking thrusts mixing pleasure with the discomfort until the pleasure won out utterly.

“We are nearly as one,” Thranduil murmured against his temple, “there is not much more of me.”

“Thank the  _ valar _ .”

The King chuckled and pressed another kiss against his skin.

Legolas felt the weight of his father’s seed purse settle against him, the tight press of his thighs as Legolas took his father to the root.

“Well done, little leaf.  Well done.”

Legolas sighed, going boneless beneath his  _ ada _ .  “Thank you,  _ adi _ .  This is what I wanted.  Take your pleasure from me.”

“There is pleasure in this for you, as well,” Thranduil said as he spread adoring affection over Legolas’ neck and shoulders… anywhere he could touch.

Legolas could not conceive it, stuffed full as he was, that there could be more than the heart-joy of having his  _ ada _  inside him.

Thranduil shifted, changed his angle and pulled out swiftly only to thrust back.  Whatever his  _ ada’s _ finger had touched within him was battered once more, Legolas choking out a surprised cry before Thranduil did it again.

“You are tight,  _ iônen _ .  It is like being crushed by an ent.”

Legolas could form no response, hands flailing for something on which to gain purchase as Thranduil claimed him… took and gave pleasure in equal measure.  His father caught his wrists, pinning them with his own large hands. 

Oh!  That was so much better not least of which because it deepened the angle, made each smooth slide of Thranduil’s hips strike that pleasure nub within him more fully until he was sobbing at the wonder of it.

Thranduil released one of his wrists to stroke at his prick, edging him toward a precipice that was familiar from his own touch and yet utterly unknown.  Legolas gripped his father’s sweat-soaked back, fingers curling into the flesh and dragging along it. It wasn’t until Thranduil cried out that he realised he’d drawn blood.

“I’m sorry,  _ adi _ .”

“Do it again,” the King commanded.  “Do it again.”

Legolas did, Thranduil’s hips becoming haphazard and rough in their coupling but it mattered not, Legolas’ body withstood the onslaught… enjoyed it.

“My precious boy,” Thranduil mused.  “My little whore.”

_ “Aïe!” _ Legolas cried, his release suddenly far closer than he had believed, spurned onward by his father’s filthy words.  He could play at his King’s game. “Spill within me,  _ adi _ .  Fill me with your seed.  Claim me.”

_ “Legolas,” _ Thranduil growled roughly, hips stuttering in their rhythm.

“Make me your whore,  _ adi _ .  Just yours, and no other’s.”

Legolas had not imagined what his own words would do to him, the furious heat in his belly like a dwarf’s forge suffusing outward until it claimed every limb.

“Yours,  _ adi, _ ” Legolas gasped, body arching in sublime pleasure as he spilt across his father’s hand.

Thranduil cried out, his pleasure chasing Legolas’ release until he felt the warmth, the pooling slick of his father’s seed within him.  His father’s face at that moment, slack with pleasure and twisted with desperate love… it was everything. Let Legolas die, he would never know a happier moment.

Legolas groaned at the knowledge that his father had filled him, had claimed him thus.

“ _ Iônen,” _ the King murmured, gently lowering his legs before pulling out of his passage.

“No,” Legolas whimpered, pouted in a way he had not in many years.

“Rest, love.  I will have you again before morning.”

“Yes,” Legolas hummed, nuzzling into his father’s damp chest.  “As often as you wish, my King. I am, after all, your whore.”

Thranduil groaned, dragging him impossibly close.  “I have created a monster.”


End file.
